The sun hung low on the horizon, bleeding red into the dusty sky as the great funeral pyre rose in the heart of the Vol'kheren camp.
Upon it lay Shak'var Rogo, wrapped in thick furs, his body unmoving in death. Beside him rested two stone dragon eggs — cold, ancient relics humming with ancient magic that no longer exist in the known world. And there, swaddled in blood-streaked cloth, was the stillborn child, the unborn heir to the Shak'var.
His form was unnatural — born with scales, horn-like studs, and wings, the Shakareen birthed a monster unbeknownst to this world. To the Vol'kheren people this was nothing but... a curse brought by the foreign woman their Shak'var had chosen
At the base of the pyre, the witch who aided in the forbidden rite knelt bound to a wooden pillar, her robes torn, her eyes gleaming with defiant madness. The Rhazkaan, sworn riders to protect the warlord circled on horseback with grim faces, their shadows stretching long in the dying light. Around them, the Kel'rhakars whispered like wind through the grass — heavy with grief, suspicion, and blame.
One Rhazkaan, his face carved by scars and hard years, spat into the dirt before speaking with cold finality:
"The pale-haired woman is no Shakareen, she brought death to the Shak'var. Find her and burn her along with the witch."
But the flames had not touched her yet.
Somewhere, in the sea of sands…
The sharp clink of armor echoed across the barren wastes, carried on winds thick with dust and heat.
A woman — white-haired and fair-skinned, with eyes like polished amethyst, glowing faintly beneath the desert sun — ran barefoot, her feet pounding the cracked desert floor, her breath ragged, face streaked with sweat and grief. Behind her, the sound of Rhazkaan warcries cut through the air — riders of the Vol'kheren, closing in like a storm.
Ser Kael ran beside her — a knight who had stood by her since the day her father sold her in marriage to the fearsome warlord, Shak'var Rogo, in exchange for an army. Now he limped fiercely, his sword drawn, blood soaking his torn cloak. The shimmer of the Sea of Sands blurred the horizon with heat, but he never faltered.
"Go, Shakareen! I'll hold them!" Ser Kael shouted, his voice hoarse but resolute.
Her heart wrenched as she glanced back — the last loyal shield between her and death, willing to die so she might live. Tears burned in her eyes, but she did not falter.
"I brought this on us… and you still chose to protect me."
She pressed on, fleeing deeper into the wasteland.
At the edge of the desert, just when freedom seemed within reach, a lone figure stepped into her path — the scarred Rhazkaan from before, his shadow stretching long beneath the burning sky.
She skidded to a halt, heart pounding in her chest.
Their eyes locked for a single breath — then he moved.
She turned to run, but a sudden blow struck the side of her head, sharp and stunning. The world tilted. Her vision blurred, colors bleeding into one another.
Her legs gave out beneath her.
The sky spun once…
And then, darkness.
Nightfall, back at the pyre
The Rhazkaan dragged Ser Kael forward and cast him down, bloodied and shackled, at the feet of the Shakareen and the witch. He hit the ground hard, forced to kneel — a knight broken, made to face the woman he had failed to protect. They meant for him to witness it — his shame, stripped bare before death.
The air hung heavy with smoke and the weight of final judgment. Around them, the Rhazkaans moved with grim purpose, stacking the last of the flanks. The pyre was ready.
The witch turned her head towards the Shakareen, a cruel smirk twisting her scarred face.
"They'll burn you like they burned my village," she rasped.
"I watched my kin burn. Now yours follows. Your child was no savior — just ash before breath."
She stared at her, horror tightening her breath.
"You lied to me…" she whispered."You said the ritual would save them."
"No," the witch hissed, her eyes glinting with hate."I said it would bring change — and it has. The Stallion's line ends with a monster: stillborn, cursed. I ended him before he could ever rise."
"You used me—" she choked.
"I burned. So now they all burn." she grinned.
Before the Shakareen could respond, a Rhazkaan stepped forward and raised his torch.
"For bringing death to the Stallion and his son," he declared, voice rough with fury.
"You will burn with the witch."
The witch let out a rasping laugh — then the torches struck.
With a rush of fire, the pyre ignited. Flames roared upward, licking the sky, casting wild shadows across the camp.
Kael turned his head away, eyes clenched shut.
The Shakareen closed hers, drew in a breath — and did not scream.
But the witch did.
Her laughter twisted into a wail of agony as the fire consumed her — no prophecy, no power, just pain. Her shriek echoed into the night, sharp and unholy.
Then, from the heart of the blaze, a whirlwind erupted — violent, unnatural, as if the very winds of the world bent to the Shakareen's will. The fire twisted and rose, pulled upward by unseen hands.
And something ancient stirred within the flames.
Silence fell.
The fire raged through the night, a towering pillar of flame devouring wood, flesh, and prayer. None dared approach. The Vol'kherens kept their distance, watching in tense silence as smoke bled into the starless sky. Some whispered. Others wept. The scent of ash and death hung heavy over the camp.
Hours passed.
Then — at the break of dawn — the flames began to die, crackling embers collapsing into a bed of glowing coals.
And there, standing in the heart of the ruin, she emerged.
Unburnt.
Alive.
She who stood amidst the smoldering ashes, bare skin untouched by the raging flames, silver hair drifting on the morning breeze like strands of light. From behind her shoulders, two creatures slithered forth — dragons, newly hatched, smoke steaming from their nostrils as they coiled close to her like kin.
For a long breath, no one moved.
Then Ser Kael broke from the crowd, stumbling forward, eyes wide with disbelief. He dropped to his knees before her, armor clattering against the charred earth.
The Kel'Rhakars followed in stunned silence, lowering all of their heads.
One by one, the Rhazkaan riders bowed, not in submission — but in reverence.
Then—something moved within the ashes. A sound. Not wind. Not flame.
A cry. Small. Fragile. Alive.
A sharp breath hitched in her throat.
She turned toward the dying embers… and there, nestled in the ashes as if the fire itself had cradled him, was a newborn. Tiny. Breathing. His skin dappled with scales. Horn-like studs upon his brow. A thin tail curling beside him.
Her son.
Sulien.
Stillborn by flesh — reborn by fire.